*We can't do nuffin.'

She was incensed by his lack of sensitivity. *What if it was you lying here? Would you want someone to come along and chop you up for meat, or crows to peck out your eyes?'

Weakened after his ordeal with Thurstan, he felt depressed in spirits. He thumped the cart. *Ain't we got enough troubles without making more? We're stuck in the middle of nowhere. We have to mog on and find work afore we starve.'

*I know all that, so the sooner she's buried the better.' Tying a knot in the hem of her frock, she drove in the ditching shovel. Being heavy, sticky clay it was harder going than she imagined.

Taking a respite, she gazed back up the winding stretch of road along which they had journeyed yesterday. Sheep grazed on the rough grassland.

Seeing her shiver, a fine web of dampness clinging to her cloak, Wakelin was filled with remorse at his sharp words and came to lend a hand.

The next task was to choose what to take before they concealed the cart behind a thicket of osier. In the end they decided that, apart from Bellringer, the pigs, and the little food they had, everything had to be left, briefly.

The further they trudged, Tipsy's slight weight in the basket that Eppie carried seemed to grow heavier.

*We can't be far from Malstowe,' Wakelin said. *I went there once with Ezra when we were cropping.'

Taking a breather, they gazed upon hundreds of marl pits, each having a steep and a gentle slope, some partially filled with water. Men were digging the fertilizer that would be ploughed into the land to bulk up sandy soil. Ponies hauled barrows, chains rattled.

*There might be work for me here.'

Shortly afterwards, he emerged from the Lord of the Pit's shack. *He can only take me on for a while; the ground will soon be too frozen to dig.'

Nearby, a marler, leaning upon the handle of his spade, spattered phlegm onto the earth. By the mean look in his eyes, Eppie knew he recognised her.

She gripped Martha's arm. *We can't stay here. It's Jaggery.'

Tossing a shovel upon his shoulder, Wakelin marched off, whistling.

Eppie's heart sank.

Later that evening, riding a borrowed horse, Wakelin went to collect the cart.

Sitting around the campfire with the marlers and their families, Eppie and Martha impatiently awaited his return.

Cold light from the stars shone fitfully through scurrying clouds.

Wakelin stormed out of the darkness. *You're a dunderhead, Eppie. I knew we shun't have hung around, burying Jenny. Some stinker's made off with all our stuff, the cart an' all.'

Eppie sank her head between her knees in dismay.

*We had to leave the cart a while whether or not we buried Jenny,' Martha reasoned. *But how awful, now we have nothing.'

Harkening the torment in her mother's voice, Lottie burst into tears.

Martha made an effort to appear cheerful. *Never mind, I suppose we'll have to muddle on, as usual.'

Conscious of the workers' inquisitive glances, they turned in for the night, to the hut shared with several other families.

For weeks, Wakelin laboured in the pits. Martha and Eppie found work doing odd jobs at nearby farms, leaving Lottie to be cared for by one of the pit women.

To Eppie's dismay, Wakelin counted Jaggery as one of his friends and, each evening, they would head off to a village tavern.

On the final day, despite it being a murky November morning with steady drizzle, town-folk from Malstowe flocked to watch the bull baiting.

Children gave a stirring cry, having spotted the beast, tethered behind a butcher's wagon, trotting ungainly towards its place of torture.

The Bearward led the bull into the bottom of the deepest pit where a stake had been specially erected. A long chain secured around the roots of its horns confined the beast. At the top of the slope the owners of bulldogs and mastiffs waited, each holding back their eager dog by its collar.

Wakelin and Jaggery strolled along the line of dogs arguing, in friendly banter, about which was the most likely to win bets. Wakelin slopped ale in his eagerness.

Although Eppie had no intention of witnessing the baiting to its savage end, she could not suppress her sense of curiosity as to what was taking place, and joined the throng.

Trumpeting filled the air, heralding the start of action.

Trampled ground rapidly turned to sludge as dog and bull fought. Gripping the bull's nose, the dog held on with its clenched teeth. The bull, for its part, endeavoured to gore the dog or toss it out of the way, this being no easy feat with its horns locked into a wooden sheath.

Stood at the top of the pit, the crowd laughed and jeered and gave loud, rough cries of encouragement.

Gleefully, the butcher told those around him, *After it's slaughtered that bull will fetch me a packet; meat always tastes tender after baiting.'

Eppie could not imagine why. Nor could she make up her mind as to which looked the more ferocious: the bull, dogs or men? She walked away, sickened.

*Have you seen Wakelin?' Martha asked, pacing towards her, Lottie in her arms.

*He's watching.'

*I hope he has more sense than to risk any of our money.'

Ambling away, they peered at produce for sale in wagons and whiled away the time in a tent, eating hot pies and sipping steaming cups of tea.

Revolted by the depravity of the scene, Eppie wished the heated baying of the mob would cease, for the suffering to be over. Soon enough, it was.

*Wakelin!' Martha shrilled, setting eyes on him.

He half-turned to flee, an odd blend of horror and humility written upon his flushed face.

Too clearly, she saw the worst had happened. Without waiting for him to utter a word, she scolded, *How could you?' There was such despair in her voice that it frightened Eppie, and set Lottie to crying. *I trusted you.'

*Ah, stop raging at me.'

Martha picked her way through the exodus, pursuing him. *How much have you lost?'

Eppie remembered du Quesne's coin and fetched it out of her pocket.

*What ew got?' Lottie asked, placing her fingers around Eppie's wrist.

*I could give this to mam. Only it ain't mine to give.'

The guinea was snatched out of her hand by a filthy-nailed hand. Eppie shrieked in alarm.

Jaggery spat on the coin and rubbed it dry on his waistcoat. *Where ya got this from?'

Eppie was loath to talk to this despicable man, though she could not refrain from honesty. *Thurstan du Quesne gave some money to his uncle at the pumping mill. Ranger hooved it into the ground. I was gonna give it back.'

*Was ya?' He held the coin high, squinting closely at it. *So, how come you've still got it?' He guffawed, seeing her stern, troubled expression. *I'll do you a favour and tek it off ya. That'll save me the trouble o' reporting you to the Thief-Taker General at Malstowe jail.'

Martha hastened to Eppie's side like an irate chicken without a head. *How weak-willed can you get? His excuse is that the other men led him on to chance our money.' Seeing Jaggery limp away, tossing the gold guinea in the air, she added, *It's a pity Wakelin didn't have his luck.'

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE.

ROTTEN MEAT AND SOGGY CABBAGE.

A watery sun rose above the horizon as the marlers broke camp.

Steadfastly marching, it was not long before the Dunham's came upon the poorhouse, standing in a remote setting. Originally used as a plague house, where people suffering from leprosy were isolated from the healthy population, the building looked bleak and exposed, catching the full blast of the icy wind that tugged Eppie's cloak.

Before an arched portico, men loaded a wagon with mops, brushes, woven baskets and candles, all made by the inmates, ready to be sold at the market.

Eppie gripped the iron railings and scanned the barred windows, hoping against hope that she might see Betsy. The place seemed as dead as she felt.

Treading the steep road into Malstowe, Eppie's step lightened. The air smelt refreshing, saturated with the dampness of fallen leaves. It filled her with optimism. *This is like Copper Piece Wood.'

A river wound its way down the wooded escarpment, thundering in cataracts and splashing mossy branches. Soaring from its surging swell, the ashen-grey stone wall of a mill rose like the elevation of an imposing bastille. Behind rows of small-paned windows, machines rattled and clanked. A waterwheel, clamped to the side of the mill, turned with a tremendous grinding and creaking, shaking off frills of sparkling water.

Most curious was a dwelling built upon the bridge. The house, constructed of black timber and in-filled with yellow-green patched plasterwork, could only be Bridge House, where Gabriel occasionally stayed.

They stepped, in single-file, along the bridge. Going about their daily business, people hurried past. Some, like themselves, drove pigs and other livestock. Others lingered to chat or watch water crashing and foaming in deep pockets between boulders.

The thoroughfare that ran beneath Bridge House was only wide enough for one wagon to cross at a time. Eppie contemplated the mayhem caused if a wheel fell off a rickety wagon or animals being led across misbehaved.

On the embankment, on the town side, was a garden which belonged to Bridge House, the canopies of trees visible above its high brick wall.

A studded wooden door was set to one side of a central archway beneath Bridge House. As they passed by, the door was swept open and a housekeeper, her waistline bulging beneath a blue-spotted chemise, waved at a rat catcher who was about to step into the mill yard. *Mr Loafer! Rats!'

Dressed entirely in brown, his spindly legs peeping from an overlarge coat, the rat catcher had the guise of a rat. *I ownee called by yesterdee, Miss Scratchings,' he shouted, side-stepping a woman who carried a basket of vegetables upon her head. *You sure you ain't inviting these bristly fellas in so's you may have the benefit o' my company?'

*Mr Loafer! What a thing to fancy!' Conscious of her work-worn appearance, she straightened her beribboned mobcap, and let him in.

Beyond the bridge, the imposing homes of the wealthy nestled on a wooded hillside.

Opposite Thurstan's stagecoach inn, The Wolf and Child, stood a coaching workshop, a wheelwrights and a corn store. Further along was The Prince's Theatre. A boy who had lost half a leg sat on the steps of the Town Hall, clutching a stick. Beside him was a girl who, having suffered an injury to her eyes, had her eyelids sewn down. Palm outstretched, she waited in silent expectation of receiving a coin from a kindly lady or gentleman.

The Dunhams tramped down a constricted lane, heading towards the bustling market square.

Whilst pleasantly surprised by the charm of the town higher up, Eppie's spirits now sank. Dilapidated warrens, their roofs bowed and chimneys tottering dangerously, replaced the lush vales and expansive sky of the countryside. Over the doorway of one house hung a sign declaring it offered Good Beds and Logins fer Thravelers. The rundown appearance of the dwelling did not make the offer tempting.

Skirting heaps of rubbish, Eppie could tell from the look of consternation upon Martha's face that she was equally appalled by what she saw.

Many of the houses around the marketplace were tall and ugly, their windowpanes grubby, the paintwork chipped. Standing in the doorway of Finagle's Pawnbrokers, the proprietor bellowed a gruff reply to a neighbour who leant out of a top window.

Hoping to earn a few coins for their labours, ragged children swept mud and filth clear before the feet of the few fine folk that milled around.

Wakelin wrung his hands against the cold wind. *It'll be dusk soon. The few shillings we've got left won't go far.' Eppie perceived a note of repentance in his voice.

*I'll speak to a couple of traders,' he suggested. *See if they can recommend somewhere for us to stay overnight.'

Having purchased a thrupenny loaf, Martha led the way to a disused shop. Legs aching, Eppie sank gratefully upon the icy step and sucked the coarse bread to make it last. Seen through the smashed door, the interior of the shop was littered with soaked rags and, judging from the reek, the dingy place served as a privy to poorer passers-by. To quench their thirst they bought drinks from a higgler who sold fresh water.

Tinkers squatted amongst wares strewn upon the pavement, selling all manner of items, from spades and iron potato planters to chipped crockery. Chickens and geese, bound by their legs, dangled from a pole above the men's heads.

A pack of hounds, ribs projecting from their flesh, bounded towards them. Eppie and Martha jumped to their feet in alarm. Hurriedly, they made to the safety of the stalls where burly stallholders saw off the dogs with well-aimed kicks.

Waiting for Wakelin to return, they wove their way around the jumble of stalls. Though plenty of baskets of vegetables and fruit were piled for sale, most looked bad, hardly fit for consumption. Less choosy, Bellringer and the pigs crunched rotten vegetables off the ground.

The longer they hung around, the chillier Eppie became.

She spied Wakelin's head bobbing towards them through the press of market-goers. *At last!'

*There are cheap quarters,' he said jauntily, *ownee tuppence a night, though we'll have to share with the roughest o' the rough, six to a bed. This landlady showed me a room where, ownee last night, a woman was stabbed to death.'

Despite being appalled by the incident, at the sight of Eppie's stunned look he was unable to repress a grin. For her benefit, he added graphically, *I saw the trail of blood on the stairs where they'd dragged *er body. To save the landlady the trouble o' changing the bed linen, she said we could have the room dirt-cheap tonight. Half-a-penny. The blood on the sheets was dryish, so I telled her it were fine by me.'

Martha shook her head in incredulity. *Sometimes I wonder what goes on between your ears, Wakelin.'

*I'll keep asking.'

Lottie rubbed away tears of weariness. They were quickly replaced by others.

*This is a dreadful place,' Eppie said. *Let's go back to Litcombe and see if we can find work there.'

She knew the only reason they had journeyed to Malstowe was because Wakelin was hoping to meet Ezra. Shearing machines had been introduced as a means to nap fibre and hand cropping was no longer lucrative employment. Several months ago, Ezra had been forced to bring his family here in search of work.

*I agree with you,' Martha said, *though we're too tired to walk any further. We're stuck here for at least a couple of days.'

Darkness fell.

Like a black tidal wave, workers, having collected their weekly wages, flowed into the lantern-lit market. By now little was left upon the stalls of any quality. The cheese they bought was mouldy, the vegetables wilted.

Wakelin returned with a skull-faced boy in tow. The slight curvature of his spine, bowlegs and large hands, in which he clutched bruised potatoes, lent to him a frog-like appearance. Though tired from his day's labour he spoke cheerily in his Irish cadence. *Oil ask my mother if you can stay with us.' He led the way. *The Hoggett's was with us for nigh on nine months. After Mr Hoggett dropped dead, his missus couldn't pay her way no more, so the rent collector chucked her and her children on the streets. It was the fumes what did for Mr Hoggett. He worked at the bleachers. I'm Feargus O'Ruarc. You can call me Fur. Everyone does.'

*Why are your clothes wet?' Eppie asked.